


From the Underworld

by TrulyCertain



Series: An Unquenchable Flame [4]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-11 17:57:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4446173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyCertain/pseuds/TrulyCertain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soon after Trevelyan leaves Alistair in the Fade, the Warden arrives at Skyhold and demands a rescue mission. It's a dangerous step into the unknown... but they might just succeed. A fix-it fic for Here Lies the Abyss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a follow-up to [Memory](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3882775/chapters/9173791), written in the same 'verse, and is slightly AU to An Unquenchable Flame. It's a giveaway prize for the wonderful [mywordsflyup](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mywordsflyup/).

Morgana remembers... Well, she remembers many things.

For now, though, she remembers being a frightened nineteen-year-old fresh from the Tower, ripped from everything she knew, tentatively hopeful for a new future and yet certain she wouldn’t have one. It seemed too much to ask. She remembers that mage taking her first free steps in nearly sixteen years.

She remembers a man who offered her kindness in an unkind place, even though he was a templar, wasn’t he? She alternately shrank from him or fought with him, but still he tried. He reached out to her until she reached back.

She’s unsure whether she wants to forget or cling to the memories. It hurts too much, remembering Alistair. Maybe if she keeps them somewhere safe, they won’t be stolen from her the way he has.

He’s been the surprise she never expected, bright and kind and offering her a different sort of freedom. They had nine years, and she feels selfish for thinking that wasn’t enough. She wanted a lifetime. He was her future.

She speaks little. There doesn’t seem much to say. Leliana can occasionally drag a few words out of her, but not many.  Leliana looks at her sadly and tries to offer comfort, but their conversations are difficult. Morgana remembers  Leliana encouraging her to tell Alistair about her feelings, describing love as “the sweetest kind of torture”. Torture might be accurate, but she’s uncertain about the rest.

The worst thing is that she can tell Leliana’s certain he’s dead; it’s in her eyes, the set of her shoulders. She can’t look at that and can’t consider it. It hurts, it hurts so bloody much, and even if he is, she has to know. If she believes it before she starts, she’ll never have the strength to go into the Fade.

They are going into the Fade. The Inquisitor came into her quarters and said that they were making preparations. She left quickly, almost as if she was afraid of Morgana. Maybe she’s right to be, and Morgana hates that thought.

She says nothing to Cullen, who can barely look at her; he pulls her past along behind him, and she can’t afford to stop and think of it. If she becomes that frightened apprentice again, she won’t be able to do what’s asked of her. She hasn’t been Apprentice Amell for so many years that sometimes she can’t remember who that woman was.

He finds her one day in an empty hallway. There are many in Skyhold; she’s often surprised by how vast it is.

“Warden  Amell?” It isn’t her proper title, but she supposes they can’t both be “commander”. His words are quiet, hesitant. They always were, even when he was an awkward boy who blushed whenever she passed him in a corridor.

“Commander.” She watches him carefully, far too aware of their shared history and the Sword of Mercy on his bracers, even if he says he’s no longer a templar.

“I just wanted to say that... I’m sorry.” He swallows. “Both for the things I said in, in Kinloch Hold, and what happened at Adamant.”

With a nod, she replies, “I see.” She’s unsure what to tell him, so she settles for the truth. “I’d mostly forgotten. I chose to forget a lot of things from the Tower. I think I understand why you said them.”

He finally looks up from his feet, staring at her. “You do?”

“I was... I didn’t like templars. I still don’t, often. It’s easy to hate what’s hurt you.”

“Oh.” He reaches up to rub at the back of his neck. “This must be difficult, then.”

“You aren’t a templar.” She cocks her head, assessing him. “That’s what you say. But I think you need to start believing that before I can.”

He looks surprised, and then like he’s unsure whether to be angry or upset. Eventually his face settles into resignation. “You might be right.”

“You weren’t the worst,” she admits. “I remember that. You did try.”

“I’m surprised you remember me at all.” His awkwardness has returned. “You always seemed to... look past me. I wondered if you disliked me.”

“I did. Look past you. And I probably disliked you. I’d forgotten there were people in the armour.” She’s crossed her arms during this conversation, and she’s hugging them to her chest, afraid. Apprentice Amell seems to be returning. “Believe me, you weren’t the only one who was unfair.” She sighs, looking at the stone floor. “This war has gone on for too long.”

He sighs, too. “It has. But there was something I came here to say.” When she looks up at him, he continues, “I’m aware you’ve been accessing the Fade. Yv – the Inquisitor has been doing the same. I can feel you casting.”

That doesn’t surprise her. She’s certain he’ll have stopped taken lyrium – she sees it in his sweating brow, the shaking hands he tries to conceal – but there must be some still in his system, and templar training does leave behind some permanent effects. It’s one of many things she’s learned from Alistair. (She notices the slip on the Inquisitor’s name, too, and she wonders. It isn’t her place to ask.)

“I understand why, but I think it needs the particular rift she opened at Adamant, or at least that place in the Veil. Trevelyan agrees. She’s on her way to tell you that.”

She wonders why he’s telling her this, and then she realizes: “You didn’t say you were sorry for my loss.”

“Sorry?”

“You don’t think he’s dead, do you?”

He lifts a gloved hand to rub at his stubble, looking as if she’s caught him in some misdemeanour. “I’m... uncertain. Adamant was a strange place. The way the Veil acted... I’ve never seen that before. Maybe it’s due to the Breach, but it seems to me that, well, anything’s possible.” He exhales in the silence, and it echoes off the stone. “At least, that’s what I want to believe. I knew him briefly, when we were training. He was” – he laughs slightly – “irritating.”

He looks to her, worried, but she’s laughing as well. It makes her cheeks ache, and she’s startled by the sound of it. “He told me stories about that sometimes,” is her quiet reply. “I imagine he was.”

“But he was also fair. I think he was frightened by the Chantry’s excesses, and he saw... he saw what I should have years ago. The order was corrupt even then, and many mages suffered unnecessarily. He wanted nothing to do with it, and recently, I’ve begun to think he was right.” He looks at the door to the war room, rather than at her. “I also think that if we had planned Adamant better – if we'd had better backup, if we had found some other way to keep her out of the main battle – she might not have been forced into the Fade. She might not have had to send a man to his death.” Now he looks at her. “She’s been... different, since Adamant. Even if he is alive, she was certain he wouldn’t live. The guilt weighs on her, I think.”

“And on you.”

He nods. “Perhaps that makes me selfish, but yes, it does. And... I have had to watch her wilt, these past few weeks.  If you can save him, it would be for the best. For both of you.”

She watches him for a few seconds, uncertain what to think of all this honesty. He probably thinks he’s being blunt, but it’s a kindness, after being tiptoed around for the last week. “Thank you. I won’t forget this.”

He offers her a small, hesitant smile. “For good reasons, or bad?”

“Good.” She considers not saying it, but then realizes she has to. “Cullen... I doubt you’re a templar anymore. I remember what happened at Kinloch Hold. You wouldn’t have said these things then.”

It’s true. She looked at him and saw the boy from the Circle corridors, but now she knows the man in front of her is very different. Braver, even if some things are the same.

His eyes widen. “Amell – “

“Not an apprentice. Morgana, please.”

 “Morgana... thank you.”

The sound of her name is strange on his lips. Neither of them would have been able to do this ten years ago. She remembers _one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together_ , and thinks that Alistair was more right than he knew; something about hardship makes people put their old ways aside. They aren’t who they were before. 

She nods. They part ways, and she starts to walk back to her quarters. 

* * *

Yvaine’s been waiting for a quarter of an hour outside Amell’s door. She knocked a few times, but then decided the Warden had to be out.

“ _The_ Warden” indeed. Maker, she finally meets the woman she’s been hearing about for ten years and embarrassingly idolised for seven, and it’s to tell her that her funny, kind, brave lover is dead. No wonder Amell hates her. She can join the club – Yvaine hates herself enough for the rest of Skyhold. She remembers telling Leliana that people weren’t expendable, and she feels like the worst hypocrite in Thedas. Things like this make her wonder why in the Void she was chosen as their leader. She isn’t Cassandra, or Cullen, or, well, Leliana – she can’t just throw people to the wolves and mutter something about “the cause”, pretend it doesn’t matter.

Speaking of Leliana... the spymaster’s been trying to persuade her that this won’t be as bad as all that. “She’ll listen,” Leliana said. “She may be angry, but she is also fair. She makes sure of it. She will want to know of this. It may save Alistair, after all.” The doubtful look Leliana gave the war table after she said that did _not_ help Yvaine’s nerves.

She half-wonders if Amell’s hiding in the room, making her wait for the sake of spite – she wouldn’t blame her – but Amell doesn’t seem the type. She shoulders things quietly and a little scarily, and it makes Yvaine seem hopelessly immature in comparison. She can see why Cullen used to like her in his youth: they have a lot in common, like command positions, scary expressions and refusing to talk about their pain.

She hears footsteps and looks up from the ground, hastily straightening and pretending she hasn’t been leaning against the wall. She should be professional. Amell is already angry enough with her, after all.

She gives Amell a nod. “Warden-commmander.”

Amell returns it. “Inquisitor.” Something strange happens on her face, and Yvaine takes a moment to realize that she’s just smiled. It was so brief and so small that Yvaine barely caught it, but it was definitely a smile, the first she’s given to Yvaine since she heard the news. Perhaps that’s progress. Hopefully.

“I think I have a plan. Cullen’s been working on strategies. We didn’t want to consult you until we were certain.”

Amell watches her levelly, carefully, her face unreadable. She has large blue eyes that seem like they should give her away, even though they’re half-hidden behind flyaway hair, but she’s good at making them blank, too. The overall effect is rather unnerving. “A plan?”

Yvaine lifts her arm slightly, lifting with it the scrolls tucked to her side. “This plan. We hope.” She tries smiling at Amell, unsure whether the action will further shorten her lifespan.

Amell nods. “Come in.”

She unlocks her door, and Yvaine follows her in. The room is sparse, really just a bed, a desk and an armour-stand with a roof over them. Amell’s done little to make herself at home, but little isn’t nothing – Yvaine spots a small pile of books on the desk, some of them fiction, and Warden armour on the stand. Amell’s been in simple clothes, but Yvaine’s never seen her wearing robes, and she feels like that’s probably important, somehow. She’d ask if she knew the woman better.

Yvaine gestures to the desk. “May I?”

At Amell’s silent nod, she spreads the scroll over the desk, careful not to disturb anything. There are plans for how she’ll use her mark, and even a section that considers the uses of Amell’s greatsword and own magic. Plans for backup. Plans for how the demon can be defeated, if necessary. There’s a painstaking diagram of Adamant, too. Parts of it are in Cullen’s careful Chantry handwriting, and others are in her own, far more sprawling script. She tries not to feel embarrassed at the difference.

Amell bends to look at it. She’s a fast reader - only a couple of minutes seem to have passed when she looks up, back to Yvaine. “You think we’ll have to fight the demon?”

Yvaine shrugs. “We might. I hope that Alistair defeated it, but it would be a bad idea to get complacent.”

“It would. These strategies seem fairly sound.” Amell looks at something else on the parchment, her brow furrowing. “He wants us to take templars.”

Yvaine has heard how Amell is... not especially fond of them from both Leliana and Cullen. It isn’t a question, but she treats it as one. “Yes. Not a large force – we don’t have one anyway, most of the templars got sucked into Corypheus’ plan – but a few of the ones we have. I’d think it was Cullen’s usual paranoia speaking for him, but he has a point. They might well be useful for dispels, so on.”

Amell pauses, a hand to her mouth, seeming to consider that. “He’s right,” she says, after a few seconds. “We work with templar Wardens, and against magical opponents...” A short nod. “Yes. Three, you said?”

“Three sounds right. We want this to be a fairly small operation. If the demon’s still around, or if any other forces are, we don’t want to draw their attention. And last time I checked, we weren’t retaking the fortress.” She can’t help but add, “Though maybe we could, if you get bored. I doubt it would be as hard as Fort Drakon.” Dammit. As if Amell wasn’t angry enough.

But  Amell’s lips twitch.  “Alistair liked you, didn’t he?”

Yvaine’s not sure how to answer that. “I thought we got on well,” she tries.

“I can see why.” Amell looks back to the map, and Yvaine tries to contain her surprise. Andraste, was that a compliment?

Something makes her open her mouth and say, “I certainly liked him. He was... far from what I expected, for a Warden. He didn’t...” She struggles to find her words. “He didn’t carry his glory heavily. I can’t imagine him showing off.” She swallows, praying she’s not doing the wrong thing. “And he was obviously suffering, but after we’d spoken for a while, he did make me laugh.”

“He... he does that,” Amell replies quietly. “It surprises you, sometimes.”

“I didn’t want to...” She feels her throat close and blinks once, twice. She is _not_ going to cry in front of Amell, who has lost so much more than she has. It would be the epitome of selfishness. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Maker, this is mortifying. If she were actually the Herald of Andraste and the Maker’s Bride listened to her, she’d be put out of her misery where she’s standing. “I’m sorry. He was a good man, and we’ve lost too many good men, and he wanted to – I thought... Fuck it all, I thought I was doing the right thing.” She looks at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. She certainly can’t look at Amell, who’s likely trying not to punch her. “I should have gone myself, but I thought that if the Breach wasn’t closed...” Her words fail her.

 “If the Breach wasn’t closed, many more would die.” Amell is still watching her, but there’s something new in her eyes. Something terribly sad. “Why didn’t you choose Hawke?”

 “The Wardens, what I could see of them, seemed corrupt from the inside out. I wanted to, to restore them, but I thought it needed an outside influence. Someone who didn’t have emotional connections.” She pauses. “No, actually that’s a lie. It...” She inhales tightly, trying to compose herself. “It came down to luck, and I couldn’t... I couldn’t think. He begged me, and he had the least to lose, and I thought, well, this man helped take down an Archdemon, he probably has the best chance against the Nightmare, and he _begged_ me.”

There’s a long silence, and then Amell asks, “Did he believe I was returning, or had he given up?”

“He believed to the last. He loved you, that much was plain to see, and he wouldn’t have done it if he’d had another choice. I could tell.”

Amell clears her throat. “I see. Thank you for being honest with me.” The words are stiff, oddly formal. Yvaine recognizes it – Cullen does something similar when he’s either panicking or very, very angry. “I... I don’t think I can talk about this any more.” She looks back to the map. “I wish I could blame you.”

Yvaine sighs. “I do, if it helps.”

Amell shakes her head. “It isn’t that simple.” Silence settles again until she says, “I heard that you were trying to find him.”

A stab of irritation flares in Yvaine’s gut. “It was Cullen, wasn’t it? Of course it was. It’s the sort of templar-ing that has his fingerprints all over it.”

Amell is smiling, a soft, small thing. Yvaine looks at her and remembers the stories she heard from Alistair in their brief acquaintance: the way he fell in love with a smile, a bright mind and gentle hands; the way Amell pretended to be cynical but was the most selfless woman he’d ever met. For a moment, Yvaine understands completely, and has the sudden realization that in a quiet, odd sort of way, Amell’s an attractive woman. Maker, now is _not_ the time. She suppresses the heat in her cheeks and looks back to the map.

Amell says, “Alistair definitely liked you.” Then, frowning down at the map, she says, “You would pull all of us into the Fade? Physically?”

Yvaine nods, moving round the desk to show Amell the Anchor. “This can tear rifts in the Veil, and if we can pull ourselves through... Here, let me show you...”


	2. Chapter 2

That night, Morgana finds herself in the Fade, and she finds herself dreaming of Alistair. This isn’t too unusual, and she knows that it isn’t _him._ It’s a construction, half a memory and half a dream. Part of being a mage is knowing that, even if she almost wishes she didn’t.

It’s a simple dream, but a good one. They’re in her (their) room in Vigil’s Keep. The fire is burning bright and warm. She’s halfway through a book, and he’s lying next to her, playing with her hair. Ah. A memory, then. She knows what this is; he’s trying to distract her so that they can... flagrantly disobey any fraternization rules the Wardens might have, but she’s on an excellent chapter and wants to finish it.

She finds herself putting the book aside. (She wishes she had then, too – maybe she forgot what a wonderful, rare thing she had next to her, and that their lives were limited, even more than most. She was a fool.) “You bastard,” she blurts out, before she can help herself.

He frowns at her. “A little harsh.” He cocks his head. “Unless you’re pointing out the obvious.”

“You left me. You _begged_ to leave me.”

Realization lights in his eyes. He looks away from her. “Ah... that.” His gaze returns to her. “It’s not like I _wanted_ to. I wanted to save Trevelyan. I wanted to make sure that the Calling stopped, that the Breach was sealed... I wanted to come home to you.” He swallows. “I just wish I’d had the option, but you know what they say. In death, sacrifice. Honestly, when you meet _me_ me I’m sure he’ll say the same.”

“You seem certain of that.”

He grins at her. “I could give you the whole figment-of-your-imagination-and-possibly-your-conscience lecture, but you know that already. Anyhow, it seems like you want to be certain I’m alive, so I’ll be the part of your mind that encourages you. If that’s all right.”

“Very all right,” she says softly. “I can do a reasonable impression of you, but it isn’t enough. I miss you.”

“I know,” he sighs. He places a gentle hand under her jaw, tilting her face up until she looks at him. “Chin up. Tomorrow you’ll be heading into the Fade. We all know how you love the Fade.”

“ _Liar,”_ she mutters.

“Maybe a little.”

Silence descends, and she takes a moment to enjoy the dream, the thought of him with her, even if she feels guilty that it isn’t real. Then she exhales, making herself look him in the eye, and says, “Even if it’s only to put you on a pyre, I’m coming back for you. I promise.”

He nods briskly. “Good. Remember that promise. And keep it. I know you can.”

She wakes alone and trying her hardest not to cry.


	3. Chapter 3

The next day dawns bright and early. They spend part of it making preparations to leave for Adamant. Yvaine spends most of the morning in the war room, sorting out the last details of the plan with her advisers and Amell until her throat is sore from talking and her head hurts from strategizing. All in all, a productive morning.

“Are you ready to set out?” she asks Amell.

Amell nods. “I’m ready.”

Yvaine’s in the stables, saddling her horse and doing a last check of the saddlebags, when she hears the clanking of armour and careful, measured footsteps. Ah.

Cullen comes to stand next to her, a hand on the horse’s muzzle, calming it with a quiet ease that speaks of practice and fondness. It makes her realize once again how little he’s told her about his past, about where he comes from, and she thinks that she should ask more. Then he looks at her. “Inquisitor.”

“Cullen.” She grins at him. “Go on, just one Yvaine. I know you can.”

He raises a brow, obviously choosing not to dignify that with an answer, and says, “I’ve chosen three men to assist you.”

“Three templars, you mean.”

He runs a hand through his hair. It disturbs whatever wax or mysterious enchantment is in it, and it begins to curl ever so slightly at the ends. She watches this surreptitiously, but with no small amount of fascination. He says, “Yes. Three templars. There will be two mages, so that amount seems fair.”

“We’re outnumbered, then?”

He looks guilty at that, unsure what to say, and then he seems to notice that she’s smiling, the words a joke. Well, mostly a joke. He glares at her. “Thank you for your input.” His face softens, and he looks at her in concern. “In this case, I’ve put your safety above your comfort. It seems necessary.”

She nods, waving away his worry. “I understand. Rifts, spells, that sort of thing. I’m sure it would make your hair curl.” She cocks her head, rethinking her words. “Well, curl more.”

He goes a fascinating shade of pink and opens his mouth, but a throat’s cleared nearby.

Amell is carefully grooming her horse. She frowns, checking its mane, her fingers gentle. When she looks up, she notices Yvaine watching her and says, “I’m still not used to this. It doesn’t... I spent half my life unable to travel, and I spent the Blight walking. Fereldans don’t...” She scrapes a nervous hand through her hair. “We don’t ride much.”

Cullen frowns. “Not even for Warden business?”

“Occasionally.” Amell’s attention is still rapt on the horse as she checks her saddlebags and the saddle itself. “It still feels odd, though.” She looks at Cullen and Yvaine. “You must feel the same sometimes?”

They both find themselves nodding, and glance at each other in embarrassment.

Yvaine says, “I only left the Circle relatively recently, but it’s been amusing.”

Amell makes some minute adjustments. “I always did like being able to take walks. And the books...” Her face brightens, and it’s possibly the happiest Yvaine’s seen her. Then she looks back down at her horse, as if ashamed of herself for displaying emotion. She’s just so... quiet. Perhaps it’s a Fereldan thing.

“I’d agree with that. The books made it all worthwhile. Well, except for _The Rose of Orlais._ That was just... awful.”

Amell goes pink. “I have to agree.” She looks past Yvaine in surprise. “You too?”

Cullen, by now a similar colour, scratches the back of his neck, unable to look at either of them. “Wynne’s... collection was well-known. Even amongst the templars.”

Yvaine looks at them both. “You read it in the Circle? We didn’t have anything like that. The work I had to do to get _Swords and Shie –_ “ She coughs. “I mean... do you think your horse is ready?”

Amell and Cullen are both looking at her, and both seem far too amused. Dammit, she’ll never live this one down, will she?

Amell just about saves her. “I think so.”

They lead the horses out of the stables, into the morning air. It’s fresh, clean, like it always is up here, and Yvaine inhales deeply.

She’s just about to clamber onto her horse when Cullen offers her some help. “I could - ?”

She smiles at him. “Yes, please.”

After he gives her a good push, she’s settled in the saddle. She looks down to find Cullen watching her in concern. His hand rests on the horse’s neck, as if he’s reluctant to let her leave just yet. “Yvaine... be careful. We’ve already lost too many at Adamant.”

For once, she doesn’t laugh it off. Instead she nods. “I will. I may not be Andraste’s Herald, but have a little faith? ”

He nods in return, swallowing, and turns to Amell, who is watching the scene with barely-disguised interest. “Leliana asked me to give you this.” He removes a scrap of parchment from one of his pockets and passes it to her. “And... goodbye. I hope this goes well.”

Amell smiles, and then she’s riding through the main courtyard, Yvaine keeping pace beside her.

The templar recruits catch up with them outside the gates. Yvaine knows who they are. Two are young and new to the Inquisition – they look rather star-struck when they set eyes on Amell. Yvaine’s not entirely sure she can blame them. One is Darin – he’s blond, lanky, with rather prominent ears. The other is Marcella, originally of Rivaini descent. She drags her eyes away from Amell long enough to give Yvaine a nod, which Yvaine returns. With them is Drun, grey-bearded and often frightfully serious. He looks at Amell suspiciously, and Yvaine wonders if he’s still wary of the Wardens after Adamant. Maker, this isn’t going to be easy.

She turns to them. “I’m sure the commander briefed you well enough. Adamant, Fade, find the Warden. Are we clear?”

There are nods and murmurs of “Yes, Inquisitor.”

She nods. “Wonderful.” She gestures to Amell. “As you probably know, this is Warden-Commander Amell.” She gestures to the templars. “And these are Darin, Marcella and Drun.”

Similar nods, slightly different murmurs. All are along the lines of, “Warden-Commander.”

Amell bows her head slightly. “Sers.” She frowns, looking at Darin. “You were at the gate, weren’t you?”

He flushes slightly. “I was, commander. Thank you for, for your help.”

Yvaine wonders what he means, then remembers hearing in the barracks that a soldier’s permanently running nose and irritated skin had been solved by some miraculous concoction. So it was Darin, was it?

Amell smiles at him. “It wasn’t a problem. I had plenty.”

He nods jerkily.

Yvaine says, “If that’s everything, shall we begin?”

* * *

It’s a long ride. It takes roughly three weeks to get to Adamant. Most of those three weeks are spent on a horse. The rest of it is spent camping.

The camping starts awkwardly.

The first night, they stop. Darin, Marcella and Drun set up their tents, as do Yvaine and Amell.

They spend a few hours sitting by the fire. After a few minutes of silence, Amell says, “Inquisitor?” Yvaine looks up, and Amell continues, “I wanted to thank you. I know this is a difficult mission, and... thank you.” She looks at the ground.

“I did it because I wanted to,” Yvaine replies. “It seemed like the right thing to do.”

She watches Amell, who’s staring into the fire, pensive, far from the slightly frightening woman she laid out the plan to yesterday. She’s holding her sword and a rag, but they’re still in her hands – her mind’s obviously busy.

Yvaine wonders if Cullen did more than just say she’d been looking for Alistair – Amell’s behaviour seems to have changed abruptly since they apparently spoke.

She steels herself and eventually asks, “If it’s not too much... how did you and Alistair meet?”

Amell looks up from the fire in surprise. “You want to... Oh.” She pauses, apparently searching for the words. “I... had a friend. He was attempting to escape the Tower, and I helped him. He said he wanted to be with a woman he loved. That was true, but it also turned out he was a blood mage.” She begins to clean her sword slowly, methodically as she speaks, a careful eye on her work. Yvaine wonders what it’s like: she’s never had a sword. Amell continues, “That made me an accomplice, even unknowingly. The templars were ready to take me away” – her lip curls – “when I was conscripted into the Wardens.”

“By Alistair?”

Amell shakes her head. “By Duncan, the warden-commander of Ferelden. He seemed a good man. He took me to Ostagar. It was where the first battle against the darkspawn took place. And where he... he died.” She swallows. “Before the battle, I was told to find the Warden supervising my Joining.” A smile creeps onto her face. “That Warden was... I’d expected someone like Duncan. Someone older and grim. Instead I found...” The smile has become a full-blown grin. “I found this, this man who was annoying a Circle representative with his sarcasm. He was... very funny, actually. And kind. There were many people who were treating him as if he was, well, underfoot, but he took it with good humour. He was trying to make the adjustment easier for me.” Her smile fades, and the air becomes tense.

Yvaine prompts her with, “I sense a ‘but’.”

“You’ve been in a Circle. I hear Ostwick was a good one.” When Yvaine nods, Amell says, “So was Ferelden. But it was still a Circle. When were you taken?”

“When I was twelve.”

Amell nods. “I was four. I’d forgotten things like the rain, like... sunshine. We had barely any windows, and I knew I would probably never see the outside world again. I was angry.” She looks to the horizon. “I hated the templars, hated the Circle... hated it all. Alistair was trained as a templar, he spent his teenage years in the Chantry, and when he told me that, it was all I heard.”

“Oh.” Yvaine frowns. But Amell fell in love with him, didn’t she? “So how did - ?”

Amell is definitely smiling. “That’s a much longer story.”

Yvaine grins at her. “We have weeks. It might be worth telling.”

Looking back to her sword, Amell says, “Maybe tomorrow, Inquisitor.”

“And... you can call me Yvaine, you know. Another rift won’t open up if you use my name.”

Amell looks at her levelly, her gaze assessing. “I could say the same. My name is Morgana.”

Yvane nods, conceding that. “Morgana.”

A nod in return. “Inquisitor.” Amell - Morgana’s definitely smiling. Yvaine mock-glares at her, but the smile doesn’t budge.

“Mm,” Yvaine says, “I can see why you and Cullen get on.”

Morgana looks up, surprised. “We do?”

Yvaine nods. “He obviously thinks you’re worth talking to. He’d be a lot gruffer if he didn’t.” She isn’t sure whether Morgana knows of Cullen’s... past interest. In any case, it seems to have faded – she’s seen him around attractive women, and it’s a lot more awkward, most of the time.

“Oh.”

They settle back into silence for the rest of the night, but it’s no longer a silence Yvaine is afraid of.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s the fourth day when they exchange more than pleasantries, and that’s mostly the Venatori’s fault. Don’t get Yvaine wrong, it’s not that she’s fond of the Venatori. But they come in handy sometimes.      

They’re ambushed by a bunch of the bastards. She sometimes feels sympathetic towards the younger, stupider ones, but it’s harder to do that when they’re rushing to kill you while cackling and muttering something about “Southern barbarians”. She’s not even _Fereldan_ , for Maker’s sake. Utter stereotypes. Dorian would be ashamed.

One moment they’re riding, boredom slowly beginning to set in despite the beauty of the landscape, and then it’s all Venatori and Red Templars.

Despite what she said about being unused to horses, Am – Morgana is off hers surprisingly quickly, giving it a firm pat to get it moving away from the battle. Yvaine had heard of her being an Arcane Warrior, but she still struggles not to stare when, instead of a staff, Morgana pulls out a sword nearly as big as she is. It’s so silver it’s nearly white, and it almost seems to _twinkle._

“Enchantment,” Morgana says shortly to them. She waves a hand, and the recruits’ swords and her own burst into flame. They nearly drop their weapons in surprise, but seem to realize the fire won’t hurt _them_ , _at least -_  Yvaine hopes it will be effective enough on their enemies.

They nod to each other, then along with the recruits, they’re rushing to meet the Venatori and blood is spilled. Instead of staying back the way Yvaine tends to, Morgana rushes into the fray, swinging the sword with both hands, only letting her guard down to throw the odd fireball. It’s only a distracted moment, but she’s caught by a nasty shock, and in the moment she curses, trying not to reel, a Red Templar gets her with his shield and sends her sprawling.

Yvaine acts on instinct, gathering her will and setting him on fire before he can blink, and while he’s still screaming , Morgana’s kicking him out of the way and getting to her feet surprisingly quickly for a woman in armour. She nods her thanks to Yvaine.

They’re halfway through the fight when a Red Templar catches Yvaines with a particularly nasty smite. It wipes out the storm she’d generated and leaves her sagging and gasping for breath. Fuck. Usually she’s better at keeping out of the way – she’d forgotten how much this hurts. Her mind still whirling, she struggles to regain her equilibrium.

A hand on her shoulder.

She looks at Amell, whose face is firm. She truly does look like the warden-commander of legend. Amell says, “Get behind one of your recruits.”

“But – “

“It’ll make this easier. Get behind a shield, find a lyrium potion. The recruits aren’t proving a good enough distraction. They’ll have to be a shield.”

Yvaine looks at her and knows she’s right. With a nod, she all but throws herself behind Drun.

He glances at her. “You alright there, Herald?”

She offers him an awkward thumbs-up and smile, then scrabbles for her vial of lyrium. Thank the Maker, he understands what she’s doing and provides cover until she’s gulped it down. She feels the tingle spreading through her bones, her blood – her mana’s returning.

Morgana has returned to the fray, hacking through the field with an almost frightening speed. The fire enchantment on her sword has gone out, and she looks pale – she must have been drained too – but she fights on, barely even pausing. No staff required. Suddenly Yvaine understands very well why a mage might want to train with a sword.

She somehow manages to get back into the fight, and she’s halfway through setting a Venatori mage on fire when she registers a cry of “Behind you!” and something catches her in the side of the head. She has time to realize that it’s a pommel before she’s falling, her staff loosening dangerously in her grip. She glares at the Red Templar who did this, and on instinct reaches out with a hand, conjuring a bolt of lightning. He goes down sizzling.

_Good,_ she thinks muzzily.

It takes her a moment to comprehend that the noises of battle have stopped, and they’re replaced by clanks and murmured voices. She blinks, and when she looks back up, Am – Morgana, Drun, Marcella and Darin are frowning down at her in concern.

She clears her throat. “Well, this is...” She searches for the word. “...embarrassing. I’d do something about this, but I think I used the last of my mana on grilling that templar.”

Morgana glances over her shoulder at the corpse with an impressed raise of her eyebrows, but then she’s looking back to Yvaine, her brows creasing with concern. Her armour creaks and clanks as she moves, her hands moving to comb through Yvaine’s hair and get a look at her scalp. Hmm. A mage in armour.

“Yes,” Morgana answers.

Ah. She said that aloud. Yvaine winces as Morgana’s fingers probe at the wound. “Why?” When Morgana looks at her in surprise, she elaborates, “Dorian would tell me to keep talking, if he were here. I’d tell _myself_ to keep talking, if you know what I...” She trails off, unsure where the rest of the sentence went. “First rule of healing head wounds,” she tries.

Morgana nods briskly, as if that’s familiar to her. “You’re slurring.”

“Oh.” Yvaine grimaces. “Con... er, concussion. Probably.”

Another nod. Morgana keeps checking the wound. “And I chose mail because I... I didn’t want to be like the Tower mages. I was always terrible with a staff , anyway.” She raises a hand and says quietly, “Stay still, please.” Yvaine suppresses the urge to nod, and Morgana shuts her eyes a moment, tugging on the Veil. Calling spirit energy.

“Healer?” Yvaine manages.

“I was,” Morgana says, pressing a hand to the injury and _focusing._ It knits – quickly and smoothly, though it stings a little – and she lifts her hand, checking it over before nodding, satisfied. “There.”

Yvaine stands, albeit slightly unsteadily. Morgana and Drun both offer their shoulders to lean on, and she makes use of that gladly.

Drun is watching Morgana out of the corner of his eye, though with more curiosity than suspicion now. “Commander?” Morgana looks at him questioningly and he says, “That sword... I’ve never seen its like.”

With the kind of smile one would get while talking about a beloved child, Morgana replies, “We called it Starfang. It was made from a meteorite that fell to Earth, and it cuts through darkspawn like butter. And everything else, really.”

Drun’s nodding along with a similar expression. Yvaine wants to shake her head. Honestly, warriors and their swords.  Though that brings her to another question...

“So how does a spirit healer end up using a sword, anyway?”

Morgana’s smile turns softer, quieter. “I was taught.”

“Alistair?”

“Alistair,” Morgana confirms. “It was how we started talking to each other. Rather than” – an awkward half-smile – “arguing.”

“And...?”

“We became friends.”

Yvaine waits for a little more, not wanting to push, but silence descends as they follow tracks, looking for their horses. They won’t have gone far – they’re better-trained than that.

Eventually, however, she can’t resist. “It sounds like it was a slow thing.”

Morgana looks at her in surprise, as if she’d assumed she already knew this. “Oh, it was. We’d been friends for a long time before we...” She runs a hasty hand through her hair, looking away. “Is there... anyone in Skyhold?” The question is tentative, low.

“Not that I know about,” Yvaine answers airily. “Unless I have some sort of secret admirer.” She tries not to think about how _nice_ “someone” would be. Someone to look past the title and the Mark. It’s not something she needs, but it would be... nice.

Morgana’s surprise only increases. “Really? I thought...” She cuts herself off.

“You thought?”

Morgana shakes her head, and then asks, “You’re a healer, aren’t you?”

Yvaine grins at her. “That obvious?”

“I can spot one at twenty paces.” Between how soft-spoken Morgana is and the strangeness of the situation, it takes Yvaine far too long to realize that the warden-commander’s just made a joke. “A templar at a hundred.”

“Well, I’m impressed. What about Cullen?”

Morgana’s adjusting her gauntlets. “Saw him at a hundred and fifty.”                                           

 They find the horses soon enough. They start riding again. It’s largely uneventful, except for Drun nearly losing his grip on the reins, distracted by throwing admiring glances at Amell’s sword.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s been two weeks when Yvaine wakes up to the sound of screaming. She’s out of the tent, staff in hand, in less than ten seconds. Cullen would be impressed. She thanks the Maker that she kept an undershirt and breeches on.

She looks around in surprise, hearing nothing more than a few angry mutters from the recruits’ tents. No darkspawn, no Venatori... just the odd muffled cry of distress coming from Morgana’s tent.

Yvaine can’t help it – she’s always been too much of a busybody for her own good. She sticks her head into the tent and sees the Warden thrashing, her face pained. Nightmares?

She considers waking her up, but thinks it’s probably a bad idea to wake someone in this state up yourself. She thinks for a moment, then withdraws from the tent and casts a simple, targeted ice spell. She aims a blast of unpleasant but not dangerous cold at Morgana’s feet. She can see them well enough to aim from here.

It works. She hears and then sees Morgana jerk awake with a gasp, panting, and then the Warden crawls out of the tent.

Morgana breathlessly makes for the fire, still stooped over and looking desperately at the light like it might save her. She’s still shivering and breathless when she looks at Yvaine. “I’m sorry. I’ve been alone too long, I didn’t think...”

Yvaine frowns. “Is this the false Calling?”

Morgana nods, running a hand down her face and then looking at the fire – still with that silent desperation in her eyes, as if she thinks it’ll save her. “I... considered going to the Deep Roads, but I thought I was close to finding...” She stiffens, as if in sudden memory.

Their packs are close to the fire, and she leans over, looking through her own. That desperation again – it moves her hands, makes her go through it with unnerving speed. Yvaine hears a clink of glass, and then Morgana pulls out a small vial, two, holding them with careful hands. They glint in the light from the fire.

“Oh,” Yvaine murmurs.

Morgana’s voice is so soft Yvaine can barely hear it over the crackling of the fire. “Sometimes I’m afraid I’ve lost it, or I’ve broken it. I think... I think this was all for nothing, and I wasted so much time...”

Yvaine sits next to her. “I can see how that would be upsetting. It’s a little worse than ‘sweet Maker, I think I left my potion on the boil too long.’” She sighs. “But that won’t happen. If I do find you leaving a trail of valuable Taint cures behind you, I’ll do my best to say something.”

Morgana smiles. “Thank you.”

Yvaine nods. “Not a problem. And I do think we’ll find him, if it helps.”

Morgana just looks at her, those sorrowful blue eyes curious. The fire throws flickering shadows on her cheekbones, making her look both gaunt and tired and like some sort of statue. She looks... well, she looks like the Hero of Ferelden.

“I admit, I wasn’t certain at first, but we’ve come this far. And there are days when something seems to like me, or at least be in a reasonable mood, even if I somehow doubt it’s the Maker. Why shouldn’t we?”

Morgana raises her eyebrows and mutters, “Why should we?”

“Oh, you know,” Yvaine says breezily, “multiple acts of heroism. Excellent senses of humour. Why wouldn’t something up there be fond of us?”

Morgana shakes her head, still smiling, but then it fades as she says, “I just... I need to find him. Even if I only find a body, it’s an answer.”

Yvaine puts a hand on Morgana’s arm. “I understand. I think.” When Morgana continues staring in a harrowed sort of way at the fire, Yvaine says, “You mentioned that this all started with a blood mage?” When she gets an interested look for her trouble, she continues, “They thought I blew up the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

Morgana stares at her, shifting closer, whether she’s aware of that or not. Yvaine takes it as a cue to continue, and with the occasional question, she tells the story. She’s just got to the point where she’s just raised the sword and declared herself “Inquisitor Trevelyan” when she finds she’s falling asleep. She looks to her side and discovers that Morgana is asleep.

She looks younger, more relaxed in sleep, and she snores a little. It’s graceless, trivial and entirely, completely human.

Yvaine finds herself smiling. She has the feeling that sleep comes rarely and uneasily for a Warden, so rather than moving the other woman and risk waking her up, she tucks a blanket round her and retires to her own tent.

She falls asleep thinking of Skyhold, and for some reason, her thoughts keep drifting to Cullen.


	6. Chapter 6

“Adamant,” Trevelyan says. _No,_ Morgana corrects herself, _Yvaine._ After last night, after everything, she’s Yvaine. Morgana knows what it is to be a story rather than a woman.

The Veil is... strange here. Thin. Not just the thinness brought about by the Breach, either; it’s uneven, weak, like pulling apart cotton, and she’s never felt anything like it. That feeling crawls up her spine and settles at the back of her neck. This place feels more like the Fade than Thedas. There were tales of Adamant, ones whispered and quickly cut off; no-one was sure exactly what went on there, and unlike Weisshaupt, they didn’t deem it important enough to find out.

The recruits look similarly uncomfortable; they must have been on lyrium at some point, and they can probably feel the Veil too, the wrongness of it.

Yvaine is watching her in concern, and says after a moment, “I know. It’s pretty unpleasant.” She looks around until her gaze fixes on the sky.

It looks ordinary, and if anything, that makes the unease prickling over Morgana’s skin even worse. She half-expected green fog, demons – anything that would explain what she’s feeling.

Yvaine frowns; for the first time since their meeting over the plan, she looks genuinely worried. It’s relatively rare to see her with a straight face, but when you do, it’s also wise to start listening. Maker, she’s so like Alistair in that sense. (Morgana misses him like she misses rain and Leliana and breath in her chest. She misses remembering who she is. She wonders how she ever grew used to being without him - maybe it’s because she thought she was returning to him. Whatever it was, that’s faded now; she feels cold, alone when she lies down to sleep. When she woke up by the campfire a few days ago, part of her thought she’d see him beside her. She needed that. Instead all she could do was grip the vials, white-knuckled, _useless,_ and hope.)

Yvaine raises her hand, the one with the Anchor, and closes her eyes. The Anchor sparks, fizzles, and Morgana watches in fascination and not a little worry as Yvaine seems to _listen_ to it. When Yvaine opens her eyes again, her face is tight. “Morgana,” she says, “we have a... slight problem.”

“What kind of problem?” Her voice is too sharp. “Sorry. What, what problem?”

Yvaine looks at the Anchor, her mouth twisting. “The Veil... ideally, I should close the rift after we come out, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to. Too much has happened here. If I don’t... well, an open door attracts robbers. Demon robbers. You get my point.”

Morgana’s heart sinks. “So we can’t open a rift because it might not close?”

Yvaine shakes her head. “Or it might close improperly and trap us here. Or it might make the rift worsen. This place will be a nest for demons if that happens.” She exhales. “What I’m saying is, we only get one attempt at coming back. Any more will probably go wrong.”

Morgana’s throat is too dry, and she swallows, trying to pull her thoughts together. “You’d rather be trapped in the Fade than let out demons?”

With a pursing of her lips, Yvaine replies, “Stupid, I know. But call me cautious.”

Morgana can’t help it; the word falls out of her mouth before she’s really aware of it. “Brave.”

For several long moments, she thinks Yvaine hasn’t heard her; the other woman’s eyes are still fixed on the sky. Then she looks over her shoulder. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“I’d call you brave,” Morgana says, more firmly, seeing surprise cross Yvaine’s face. “I can go alone, if you like. Thedas shouldn’t lose its Inquisitor.”

Yvaine grins. “I was just about to say the same thing to you. But no, I think I have to be there to seal the rift. I doubt there’s another way.” She breathes in, preparing herself, and then says to them, “I’d step back a bit, if I were you.”

They do. Yvaine raises her hand, and then there is... It’s almost impossible to describe. A crackle, a rip, a shedding of something – the air changes completely, and then there is a hole in the world, green and flowing and strange.

And pulling them.

The wind howls, and she’s dragged forward, forward, into another realm.

Then there is only blackness.


	7. Chapter 7

“Bugger.”

Yvaine groans, her cheek against hard rock. The sound came from somewhere next to her. Morgana’s voice. She puts her hands on the ground and _pushes_ until she’s kneeling _._ She looks around, seeing Morgana and...

Just Morgana.

“Where are the others?” she croaks. Maker, she’d forgotten how much doing this takes it out of her.

Morgana looks similarly dishevelled, a graze on her jaw and her face serious. “I don’t know. Do you think they’re alive?”

Yvaine tries to remember the last time this happened. “Probably.” She wishes she could be more certain. “These things do sometimes... spit people back out. Maybe it just doesn’t like templars.”

“Your rift has good taste,” Morgana mutters, climbing to her feet and surveying this place.

Mist rises from the ground, caressing their ankles in a way that’s frankly unnerving. An unseen sun shines on a sea that never seems to end, and there are vague, maddening whispers in the air that never quite resolve into words. The rock here is vague, blurry, and the sky’s the sort of yellow-green that’s more than familiar to a mage.

Yvaine looks more closely at some of the rock formations. “I think we’re in the right place.”

“The Nightmare’s realm?”

“Well hopefully it’s not the _Nightmare’s_ , because it might be dead. Of course, that would be a little too convenient for the – “

_That’s not the mist._

She looks down in panic. The mist is close to solid, almost some kind of limb, and it is most definitely _caressing_ her ankle, with intent. She takes a step backwards and can step through it, but there’s always more of it. It’s all around them.

And she can hear words in the whispers.

 _You want to go home, don’t you?_ they ask. _You want to pretend this isn’t happening. Or maybe it’s just your Harrowing. Yes, soft little mage girl, you want it to all be a dream... You know he’s dead, and it’s your fault, it’s_ all _your fault... Everything is. You can just go home, be yourself, no Inquisitor and no Trevelyan. Free. You know you’ll disappoint them. It’s better this way._

Someone puts their hand on her arm, and then squeezes tightly. She jumps, ready to fight, but just sees Morgana, who tells her, “I hear it too.”

The whispers change direction, change what they’re saying.

_You know he’s dead too. And you’ll never be able to sleep without him again, will you? To think you only used to fear the Taint._

Morgana’s teeth are gritted.

_He loved you. He was begging for you at the end, by the time Nightmare was finished with him. He thought you’d come to save him again, and the look on his face when he realized you’d failed him..._

Morgana slowly reaches for Starfang, drawing it as the same time Yvaine gets her staff in her hands. The Warden almost seems calm, but her hands are shaking and her eyes are glassy, as if she’s somewhere else.

_I could give him to you again. I could make this never have happened. I could give you Trevelyan’s blood, if you want, and make her pay for the murder she committed._

Fuck. Yvaine looks at Morgana, whose knuckles are white on Starfang. The sharp set of her jaw, the utter devastation in her eyes. Morgana’s head turns slowly, as if she’s still in a trance, and she looks at Yvaine.

_I could do both. I could give him back and make sure she never threw a good man away again. You know I could. All you have to do is accept. It’s easy._

Morgana takes a hand from Starfang, and Yvaine is certain she’s going to strike her, to cast...

She jumps when Morgana’s hand closes around hers, holding tight.

The shock of it pulls her back, makes her act. “Show yourself!” she shouts.

The only reply is a low, husky laugh.

Morgana says calmly, “I’m willing to listen. Show yourself.”

It keeps making offers... It has to be a desire demon. Surely it has to be. Yvaine stares at her, certain this has to be a ploy.

And then there is something in the mist walking steadily, calmly towards them– sauntering, really. A woman, a man. Elf, dwarf, qunari, human. It flickers between forms as if unsure which one to take, but all of them are beautiful. Its voices are many and none. After a few seconds, it settles into the form Yvaine is used to: a lilac-skinned, stunning woman. “Mages. You know, I’ve done some wonderful things for others of your kind. Given them _pleasure.”_ It savours the word. Morgana’s cheeks go ever so slightly pink, and it turns to her. “Now, _you._ You’re a little special. Your friend here has wants, but she doesn’t know what half of them are yet. I can wait. But you...” It grins. “You want him.” It walks calmly around Morgana, continuing, “I met him once before. You’ll remember. You were nineteen and you wanted him so much you ached. You thought he’d never love you, and it was killing you. But _him..._ ” It bites its lip. “He would have made the most wonderful meal. He was so in love with you it hurt, and he wanted you. He dreamed about you. Oh, I could _taste_ it on him. Poor little Chantry virgin.”

Standing behind them, Yvaine suppresses her embarrassment. She shouldn’t be hearing this. In fact, she should be doing less eavesdropping and more killing.

Morgana’s staring at it, her lips parted and colour high on her cheeks. “I thought...”

“You thought it was later?” The demon steps closer, placing a finger under her chin. “He didn’t even know he wanted you then, but he sang with it. All I had to do was listen.” A laugh. “But now you want him alive. You want his voice, you want his hands on you...”

Yvaine’s eyes meet Morgana’s over the demon’s shoulder, and Morgana gives the slightest, almost imperceptible nod. Ah.

Yvaine waits. The demon is still touching Morgana, and she doesn’t want to lose two Wardens in the Fade. Magic is easy, natural here, and she pulls lightning into her staff, waiting, charging...

The demon steps back slightly, but its hands leave Morgana, who takes a step back as well. That’s all Yvaine needs.

She presses her staff, hard, into its back and lets out the lightning. The spell’s full of Fade-energy and anger, and it’s had a while to mature – the demon screams, jerking and twisting, and fries. Yvaine winces: it looks pretty painful. She really shouldn’t feel so satisfied.

It falls onto its stomach, all grace and beauty lost. Morgana looks down at it impassively, and then reaches out a foot, rolling it over. “Dead,” she announces, with the slightest nod.

Yvaine allows herself to breathe. She wants to apologize for letting it talk so long, for not stepping in earlier, but Amell – definitely Amell, all hard lines, her face set – is already sheathing her sword and moving on. The mist is gone, thank the Maker, but this place is still dull, hazy. She can only see a few feet in front of her, and behind her is nothing. Amell is a bright, sharp spot of blue, Starfang sparkling on her back, and Yvaine slides into step with her, not wanting to lose a piece of reality. And because they have a mission to carry out.

Amell looks at her, and the shutters in her eyes are gone. “An open door, you said.”

Yvaine nods. “I’m pretty sure demons have decided this is a nice spot to camp. What with the thin Veil, and all.”

“It makes sense.” Morgana keeps walking, her breathing still a little harsh, her hands shaking. “I... Can you hear that?”

Yvaine wonders what she means, and then realizes: she can hear running water. That’s... different. “That wasn’t here before.”

“You’re certain?”

“I am.” She starts walking towards the sound, unable to help herself. “We need to find out what it is. It’s a landmark, at least.”

“Agreed.” Morgana falls back the slightest bit, letting Yvaine lead her.

The fuzziness – not quite fog, it’s almost as if the land itself won’t focus, as if her eyes won’t settle on anything for too long – continues, and then abruptly lifts.

And there is a river.                        

It rushes, roaring its way through the dream-rock. The rapids lie a few feet away, but the rest of it is a dark blue that almost seems green in places, like everything else here. It’s slower than it should be, sparkles with light that looks like that of the Breach. It seems fast in places, crawling slowly in others. It looks relatively shallow, but she can’t see the bottom.

This isn’t right.

She looks behind her and all she sees is more river, or... perhaps it’s a sea. She returns her gaze to the shore ahead and finds it isn’t there.

She suddenly has to wonder: what if she’s in the wrong place? What if this is some other dream-realm and she’s led the Hero of Ferelden on a hopeless goosechase? What if...

Water round her heels, colder than it should be. She looks down and sees water. Ahead of her, water. Around her, only water. A nonexistent sun shines upon it, the Black City above them, but there is no land, not even the hazy place of before. The water licks round her heels, icy, pulling. She tries to take a step and manages, but it’s slow, like walking through treacle. She looks to her side and sees Morgana, her face distraught, fall to her hands and knees.

An open door for demons indeed. _Fuck_.


	8. Chapter 8

Morgana is shaking her head, staring into the water, closer and closer to it...

Her face has just touched the surface, gone below it, when Yvaine grabs her by the hair and pulls her back up, ungently. Morgana gasps with the force of it, water dripping from her lashes and the tip of her nose, and stares at Yvaine.

“It’s _despair,”_ Yvaine hisses.

Morgana shakes her head. “He’s... he’s not finding me this time. I thought...” She gasps for breath. “He never really did, did he?”

“Morgana,” Yvaine tries again.

“This is... I killed the Archdemon.” She looks at the water again, sways dangerously, and Yvaine grabs her by the shoulder. “The ritual... it was all a dream. I thought my soul wouldn’t go into the Fade.”

Yvaine frowns, not understanding half of it but getting the point. She bends to grab Morgana by the shoulders. “You’re alive.”

Morgana shakes her head, her eyes glassy, her face harrowed, and then frowns. “I... am.” Her eyes focus on Yvaine for one golden moment, and then it’s gone. “But he’s... not. Yvaine, he’s dead. I know he’s dead, why I am I...?”

“He’s not.” Yvaine takes Morgana’s face in her hands and _begs._ “This is a despair demon. You remember your Harrowing, don’t you? It’s trying to slow us down. We have to keep moving.”

“He’s not?”

Yvaine shakes her head desperately. “I don’t think so. Something likes us, remember?”

Morgana nods slowly, as if half-dreaming, and begins to rise to her feet.

Yvaine moves to help her. “Good. Now _keep_ moving.”

They take a step. Another. Another. Wading through this is... difficult, slow. It feels like they’re making no progress at all, but she can feel something ahead of them, a presence than tickles at her mind, not quite whispering.

“Look,” Yvaine continues, “it’s playing with us, and honestly, fuck it. It doesn’t deserve us.”

Morgana’s gaze is still unfocused, but her brow furrows, her teeth gritting. Good. Anger is better than... well, despair.

Another step. Another. Another. So slow, Maker, so slow.

But Yvaine believes, and she has the feeling that might be enough. She faced a demon like this in her Harrowing – it used quicksand then, but the methods were the same. She knows this. She can beat it. “I can feel you!” she shouts. “The Anchor can feel you.”

Another step. Another.

Unless... She stops, raising her hand. She’s never tried this before, and she’s terrified of tearing another hole in the Veil, but she has to _try._

She remembers Cullen’s words, suddenly. _You have brought us here. Your bravery and your decisions have made this Inquisition what it is._

For some reason, the idiot believes in her. She won’t let them down. She won’t let him down.

She focuses on the Fade-presence where she can feel it and _pulls,_ believing, believing...

It’s like tugging at a string. A burst of light erupts from her hand and pulls the screaming demon into view, and then towards her. It claws at the light wrapped around its neck, pulling it forward, still screeching, and then its head looks up, and its... gaze, for lack of a better word, settles on her. It leaps forward, grabbing her, hands on her face, and she fights her terror...

The crunch of bone. Some sort of hideous squelch. It lets go of her and crumples to the ground. She blinks and realizes belatedly that it’s been run through.

Morgana stands, breathless, the whiteness of Starfang almost covered by blood. She looks in concern at Yvaine. “Alright?”

She finds her words. “Fine.” She looks down at the body of the demon, giving it one last petty kick where it rests on the ground.

_The ground._ The river... lake... whatever it was is gone. It’s over.

She starts walking, pretending she isn’t still trembling, and Morgana follows her. A few minutes pass before she says, “I think the Nightmare’s dead. This lot must have taken over its turf.”

“Perhaps,” Morgana replies, and then inhales sharply. Yvaine feels her freeze.

Yvaine at first thinks she sees two great hills. Then she sees one spindly leg, a huge body, so many eyes, and realizes that one of them isn’t a hill at all. _I think the Nightmare’s dead._ She must have spoken too soon – and that if it’s still alive, that doesn’t bode well for Alistair... _Wait._

The leg is still, and so is the rest of it. The great eyes are open, staring. Not even a twitch. She rushes forwards to see, in amazement...

Morgana holds her back. “It’s a demon. This is the Fade. We need to make sure.”

They wait, inhaling, and Yvaine stretches her senses, feeling with the Mark and a mage’s intuition. She feels... nothing, and she clearly recalls how she came here. Adamant, rift, desire demon, despair demon. “It’s dead.” She laughs, a weight lifting off her chest, her shoulders. “Morgana, it’s _dead._ Which means he probably _isn’t._ ”

It’s a slow thing, the way Morgana’s eyes light up, the way her smile slowly reaches her mouth. And then she reins it in, frowning. Maker, Fereldans and their stoic stubbornness. “I hope.”

Yvaine’s gaze settles on the hill. The only way out is through. “Come on.”

She remembers that thing whispering to her that her family would die, that the Inquisition would die, that she would let them all down, and thanks Alistair for finishing it off. The thought of that gives her new energy, and she’s practically sprinting, practically _skipping,_ up the hill, hope growing in her chest even with the twisted shapes of the trees around her, the haziness of the Fade. This place no longer frightens her.

She runs, Morgana’s clinking steps only a pace behind her, and crests the hill...

There is a man sitting cross-legged on the ground, cleaning his sword, his head bowed. Yvaine notes the Warden armour, the colour of his hair, and knows in her heart and from the way Morgana’s steps stutter, stop, exactly who he is.


	9. Chapter 9

Maker, he’s alive. He really is alive. It wasn’t just vain hope after all.

 He looks at them and says calmly, “If this is something else you’ve cooked up, it won’t work. And I’m really not in the mood.”

Morgana doesn’t walk to him. No, she _runs,_ dropping to one knee next to him. “I’m not a demon.” She laughs slightly. “I... I promise.” She takes his face in her hands and examines him, looking concerned. There’s a deep cut on his forehead, and she presses her fingers to it almost as if by instinct, healing it.

Surprise crosses his face, and then he shuts his eyes, frowning. His grip loosens on the sword hilt, and he opens his mouth slightly, laying down his sword. When he opens them again, he’s staring at her. “I can feel... It _is_ you.”

She smiles at him gently. “I was just thinking the same about you.”                       

He still watches her as if he’s afraid she’ll disappear. He probably is – this is the Fade, after all. His eyes are wide, he’s shaking, and he looks like he might cry. “Maker... Morgana?”

She looks concerned. “Yes?”

“I’ve _really_ missed you.”

Morgana moves to hold him tightly. She’s laughing quietly, roughly, and her arms are around him, a hand on the back of his head, running through his hair. She curls into him, seeming far from the near-invulnerable woman of legend. He pulls her closer until she’s practically in his lap, shutting his eyes and savouring it, strength turned to softness.

“You’re real,” he breathes.

She pulls away to look at him, her hands moving to touch his face, to run her hands over his cheekbones. Her tears are spilling over her cheeks now. “So are you. And you’re... you’re thinner.”

He grins at her. “Well, you know me. I always said I’d waste away without you.”

She swallows. “I tried to find you, and I couldn’t... We had to come back to Adamant, and we thought...we thought it might not be enough, but I had to try.” She inhales sharply, and it sounds like more of a sob. “I love you. I love you so much, and I’m sorry...”

He places a finger on her lips. “No, no. Don’t... don’t do that. You found me, and it sounds like you worked bloody hard for it. It’s my fault for staying here.”

She shakes her head. “I... Part of me thinks I shouldn’t have left. But Alistair, I found it.”

His eyes widen, and he looks her up and down as if he’s once more wondering if this is real. “You found the cure?”

She nods, beaming at him. “I’ve got it.”

He smiles, and it’s like bottled sunshine. Yvaine wonders why she’s called the Herald of Andraste when it’s Morgana receiving an expression of such utter worship.

He takes Morgana’s face in his hands and kisses her desperately, slightly clumsily. He gathers her to him, murmuring litanies, promises, words of love. When they part, he half-gasps, “I love you too. Maker, I’d... I’d forgotten how lucky I was.”

Morgana beams, tears still running down her cheeks, and flushes prettily.

He cups Morgana’s jaw and is just about to dive in for another kiss when Yvaine clears her throat, shifting awkwardly a few feet away.

They both break apart in embarrassment at the same time, staring at her and going a fascinating shade of red. It’s almost funny, really. She can suddenly see it: two young, awkward Wardens in love and desperate not to admit it. The stories might be true.

“Oh,” he says, “you came back.”

Yvaine grins at him. “I think she’d have killed me if I hadn’t.”                    

“I wish she were joking,” Morgana mutters, and Alistair looks at her in surprise.

“ _Right,”_ he says. “Now that cheery conversation’s over with... do you have a plan to get us out of here?”

Yvaine tries not to stare. He seems different from the weary, beaten-down man she met in Crestwood. Younger, brighter. She saw glimpses of it the first time she met him, when he talked about Amell. She thought he must be weaving a tale idealizing the love between them, but here, with the woman he loves in his arms... Here he’s someone else. He glows with it. She wonders how things like this exist outside of Varric’s stories. She didn’t think they did.

She pulls back her chain of thought. “Yes. I think. Though it might be a little... difficult.”

He sighs, “Unsurprising, somehow.”

“Morgana... I’ve been considering it, and I think this’ll need both of us. We need not just to tear the Veil open, but to make sure we come out in one piece. That will need more power than I can provide. I brought us all out last time, but I was panicking, and the Mark just... reacted. I’m not sure...”

“What do you need me to do?” Morgana asks. She looks back at Alistair, taking his hand, trailing her fingers over his palm as she stands, steps away from him. He silently watches her go, that look of sheer love still in his eyes.

Yvaine replies, “Just... be careful. You won’t be able to spare a moment. You’ll need to concentrate completely. Break that concentration and... As I said, one attempt.”

* * *

 _One attempt._ Morgana tries desperately not to focus on that. She tries to focus on Yvaine instead, the sound of her voice. On going home with Alistair. She tries not to think of the way the templar recruits simply disappeared, or of where they might be right now. She hopes that they’re alive. She hopes the rift won’t take Alistair. The thought of it after all they’ve gone through, when they’ve come so far... She grits her teeth.

She hears Alistair’s steps, then his voice in her ear, soft. “I’ll be right behind you.”

She nods, feeling as much as hearing him step back.

“Right,” Yvaine says. “One, two, _three..._ ”

Morgana feels a tug and then a _tear,_ feels a hole begin to open.

“Focus with me.”

Morgana nods, pouring her own energy into the rift, feeling it open – and then it exists, the hole in the Fade. Maker, she can see Adamant. She can see blue sky and solid ground. She’s taking him home.

“Keep pushing,” Yvaine says, stepping forward, and then begins to disappear through the rift.

Morgana takes a faltering step forward, another. Another. She realizes that she can’t hear Alistair over the roar of the wind, the buzz of energy, and she thinks of the templars simply not coming through. She thinks of him disappearing, and she needs to look back, she needs to _see.._.

 _“Eyes on the rift!”_ Yvaine’s voice is unusually sharp.

Yes. The rift. She feeds more power into it.

 _I’ll be right behind you._ Of course he will. She remembers years with him beside her, at her back, in step with her. He stays with her. It’s what he does. What she needs. He’ll always find her. He’s with her.

She watches the rift as she steps through it until her eyes water, and then...

And then she’s through. She sees Yvaine fall, and then she’s stumbling. The clatter of Warden plate behind her, and she knows.

She feels the energy shrink behind her, and then it’s dissolving, blinking out of existence.

The stone is rough against her cheek, and she’s exhausted. She almost wants to sleep, to just rest after all this, but someone’s running to her and crouching beside her.

She looks up and sees familiar eyes. Beloved hands raise her head slightly, checking her over. “Alistair,” she mumbles. He continues. “ _Alistair_ ,” she says, louder, “I’m alright.” With an unladylike grunt, she lifts herself off the ground. His hand closes over hers as he helps her up, gentle but firm, and she remembers a thousand sparring matches, the aftermath of a thousand battles, with him lifting her from the ground and looking at her like she was his world.

It _is_ him. She’s... she’s got him back.

She stares at him for a moment. He looks back, the same thought seeming to have occurred to him, and then they’re laughing, grinning at each other, and all is right with the world.


	10. Chapter 10

“Inquisitor?”

Yvaine, clambering to her feet, looks round at the voice. It’s Darin, half-standing and wide-eyed. Drun and Marcella are with him, looking a little scratched round the edges but very much alive. They’ve set up a small tent, and they’re clustered round a little campfire.

She can’t help it – she smiles brightly at them. Even with the Breach in the sky and Corypheus on the loose, right now it feels like there’s a lot to smile about. “You know,” she says in amazement, “I think we’ve won this one.” She adds hastily, “Sorry about the rift, by the way. That wasn’t me.”

“We believe you, Your Worship,” Drun replies.

Yvaine winces at the title, but even it can’t mar this.

Darin rushes up to her, holding out a potion. “You’ve got...” A runs a finger down his cheek in imitation of a cut. “Shouldn’t scar if...” He raises the potion again.

She nods, uncorking it. She’s out of mana, Darin can probably feel it, and the Warden’s too busy being a scene out of some disgusting romance novel to do any healing. “Thank you, Darin.” She gulps it down, grimacing at the taste, and then tucks the bottle back into her belt. It can probably be refilled later.

She turns back to the Wardens. They’re watching her with obvious curiosity, probably wondering what to do next. “Back to Skyhold?”

There are nods and mutters of agreement from everyone. She looks back to the recruits. “Have you still got the horses?”

“Saddled and ready,” Marcella says.

“Wonderful.” She looks back at Alistair, who seems even more gaunt and pale in this light than he did in Crestwood. “We’ll make camp, and then we’ll get you a proper meal.”

He smiles at that. “Well, I’m certainly not protesting.”

It turns out there are only five horses, so Morgana has to ride with Alistair. Funnily enough, she doesn’t seem to mind.

* * *

After they’ve made camp and had the “proper meal” Yvaine mentioned, Morgana takes Alistair aside, through the trees and a good way from the camp.

“What - ?” he begins.

She places a finger to his lips, and then pulls the vials out of her pocket. They’re warm in her hand, small and delicate. She’s half-afraid of dropping them.

He stares at them. “Are those...” He swallows. “Are those what I think they are?” At her nod, he looks back to her. “If we do this, are we really Wardens anymore?”

Her reply is quiet. “After stopping the Blight and spending ten years rebuilding the Order, I should bloody hope so.”

He can’t seem to help smiling at that. “You have a point.”

She passes him the vial, and he uncorks it with trembling fingers. She does the same, murmuring, “Thought about doing this on the road, but it didn’t seem right.” She stares into the dark liquid, remembering her Joining.

“’The duty that cannot be forsworn’, huh?” he says, only half-joking. She can hear it in his voice.

She replies, “It still offers Taint immunity. We’ve had it in our system enough. We can still fight darkspawn. We’re not forswearing anything.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He sighs. “Well, cheers.” He downs it in one, as does she.

It _burns._ She drops the vial, and sinks to her knees, trying not to claw at her throat, and for a minute she’s certain she’s at the Joining and certain she’s dying, white flashing before her eyes...

And then it’s gone. She tries to get her breath back and looks to Alistair.

He’s leaning against a tree, panting, white-knuckled. He opens his eyes slowly, still shaking. “Maker.” He moves towards her, and then pauses. “I... I can’t sense you anymore.”

She stops, listening to her body and the beat of her heart. She doesn’t hear it: the thrum of the Taint inside her, inside another. It no longer sings to her. She watches him, wide-eyed, and shuffles towards him. Their knees touch. “I can’t...” She presses their foreheads together, unable to find the words. “I never thought the world would allow me this.”

She feels him smile. “Best steal it quickly then, before you’re noticed.”

The kiss is a sweet, slow thing, and she’s still smiling as she presses her mouth to his, so it begins awkwardly. He runs a hand down her waist, pulling her to him...

“Alistair?”

“Mm?”

“You do realize your hand’s on my arse?”

His reply is a low, unashamedly cheerful, “Oh yes.”

“Wynne was right. You have some sort of obsession.”

“Well, it’s been a while. And you’re out of armour. Wait, Wynne _told_ you that?”

“I overheard it. You weren’t very subtle.”

“Sweet Maker, that was _years_ ago. I was still...”

She finds herself laughing into his shoulder. “I know _.”_

They end up making their way back to camp, still too amused for their own good, pretending their hands aren’t intertwined.

* * *

Skyhold. Just the sight of it is a weight off Yvaine’s chest, and she has to wonder when this place almost became home.  It’s feels like it’s been a long ride – they’re all still slightly exhausted, even if the Wardens seem more content than simply tired – and she’s glad to be back with her friends, with a comfortable bed.

She’s in the stables, unsaddling her horse and sorting out the things she’ll take inside, when she senses someone behind her. She turns, seeing Cullen leaning in the doorway. “It went well, I take it?”

She’s missed him. She’s missed all of them, but it’s nice having his solid, comforting presence beside her while she laughs at the absurdity of what her life’s become. She finds herself grinning. “What tipped you off first, the lovesick Wardens or your recruits?”

He smiles, albeit subtly. “My recruits. They were impressed with what they’d seen.”

“It could be worse, I suppose.”

“It could.” His voice is bright, a rarity from Cullen, and she looks at him in surprise. “I’m glad you’re safe. And that you succeeded.”

“Thank you.” When he straightens, obviously preparing to leave, she says, “See you in the war room?”

He nods. “Of course.” He leaves, surprisingly quiet when he wants to be, and she watches him go, feeling like she might just be home.

* * *

“Alistair.” Leliana is more cheerful than Yvaine’s seen her in a long time.

“Leliana,” he returns, still looking tired but also seeming pleased.

She’s down the corridor to the war room in five quick steps, wrapping her arms round him tightly. “When I heard what had happened at Adamant, I thought...”

He breathes a small, harsh laugh and says, “Believe me, so did I.” They part, and he looks at Yvaine. “You’ve got your Inquisitor to thank for this.”

Yvaine sketches a silly little bow. “Glad to be of service.”

Morgana adds from behind them, “You have the Fereldan Grey Wardens at your back, if you need them. And if I can reassemble them.”

“Thank you. We could do with a few more allies right now.” When Morgana nods, Yvaine asks, “I suppose you’re setting off for Weisshaupt?”

Morgana smiles, glancing at Alistair and Leliana. “If there’s room, we wouldn’t mind staying a while.”

“Trust me,” Yvaine says, “there’s room.”


	11. Chapter 11

It’s a few hours later, after the debrief and after she’s been heartily welcomed back, that Yvaine knocks once, twice on the door. There is the sound of some rustling and a throat being cleared, and it takes a couple of seconds for the door to be answered.

Morgana stands in the doorway in a hastily-tied robe, her hair even more dishevelled than usual, her eyes bright and her cheeks an interesting red. “I... Yes?”

Oh. _Oh._ Yvaine feels heat rush to her own cheeks and manages, “I’m... I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were... occupied.”

She’s completely unsurprised when she hears Alistair say wryly, “Yes. Very occupied.” Yvaine can’t see him from where she is, and is quite certain she doesn’t want to.

Morgana clears her throat. “It’s, er... Warden business.” Yvaine just raises her eyebrows at that, and Morgana looks at her feet, over her shoulder and then at Yvaine. “Warden business which can wait, if there’s something you need?”

With a hasty shake of her head, Yvaine replies, “Oh, no, no. I was just coming to see if you were settling in. Which you obviously are.” She raises an eyebrow, and Morgana’s blush intensifies.

“Oh,” Morgana says. “Right. The accommodations here are... very good.” She mutters something under her breath that sounds very much like “sturdy” – Yvaine has absolutely no desire to know - and then says, “Thank you for your concern.” She adds, “And for allowing us to stay.”

“Not a problem. I just wanted to say that some of us eat together in the great hall. Dinner’s in about an hour, if you’re interested, though I’m sure the kitchens could sort something out otherwise.”

“Thank you. We should be present for that.”

Yvaine nods, stepping back with an awkward smile. “I’ll just leave you to... er. Get acquainted.” She hears Alistair stifle a laugh with a hasty cough. “Honestly, I’d glare at him if I didn’t think I’d be blinded.”

With another laugh, he replies, “I’ll bear that in mind.”

Yvaine makes a strategic retreat.

They are actually present for dinner, much to Yvaine’s surprise. Some aren’t: Cullen’s probably in his tower, Solas is conspicuously absent, Blackwall’s probably brooding in his hayloft, the Chargers might be off getting drunk...

They take their seats quietly, with a complete lack of fanfare, but they’re greeted with a few exclamations. Morgana, unsurprisingly, takes a seat next to Leliana, who beams at her. It’s an odd expression to see on the spymaster’s face – she’s usually so reserved. “It feels like it has been forever since we did this,” she sighs.

Morgana replies, “I like the company. I don’t miss tents.” She looks across to Yvaine. “Where’s your commander?”

Yvaine sighs. “Probably in his office. It would probably be easier taking on Corypheus than dragging him away from his work.” She looks at Josephine, who is sitting next to her, listening to this with interest. “Josie, is it true you’ve been smuggling him fudge?”

Josephine looks abashed. “It’s... not entirely untrue. And perhaps a biscuit or two. I think he forgets to eat.” She grins. “And he would never admit it, but he likes them.”

Yvaine has to grin. It’s so like him, stoic and almost comically ashamed of simple pleasures. “Well, in the Marches they say that a little of what you fancy does you good. Maybe he’s absorbed something from being in Kirkwall for so long.”

“Speaking of which...” Varric cuts in, leaning with an elbow on the table and a sly smile towards Morgana. “Is it true he” – he waves a thumb at Alistair – “was a templar before he joined the Wardens?”

Morgana takes an uncommon interest in her beef. “Sort of. Not really.” She looks at Varric. “He never quite took the vows. Smote me once, though.”

Alistair glares at her, but there’s affection behind it. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

She smiles at her plate. “No.”

After all the open affection in the Fade, they’re much more reserved here. Not so desperate, Yvaine supposes. They sit close to each other, touch each other easily and often, but there’s no kissing or declarations of love. They could almost be friends, until you see the way they instinctively respond to each other, know where the other person is, and the way they look at each other.

Now it’s Dorian’s turn to chip in. “A templar and a mage? How very... forbidden.” He savours the word, obviously delighting in teasing them.

Varric grinned. “Took the words right out of my mouth.”

Alistair tries, “Well, we were both Wardens by then, so it didn’t really...”

Leliana looks a little too pleased. “Still, there are ballads about it.”

He glares at her. “Oh, I know. You wrotea few of them.”

“Indeed I did.” She’s delighted, shameless, and Yvaine wonders where she’s been hiding this side of herself. It’s been visible occasionally, when she talks to Josephine or teases Cullen about how uptight he is, but it’s so often carefully tucked away.

Varric asks, “So, how did that happen, then?”

Cassandra, next to Yvaine, says nothing, but is obviously pretending not to listen, her eyes intent on her plate.

Alistair replies airily, “Oh, you know. She had some parchment. Maybe a quill lying around...”

“Uh-huh.” Varric stares him down. “So, how did _your relationship_ happen?”

Morgana answers before Alistair can. “We had a Blight and too much time on our hands.” She’s straight-faced, wearing a pleasant smile, and the answer is almost, _almost_ polite. Maker, these two are as bad as each other.

Leliana laughs quietly, and Varric grins. “Sure, sure.” He looks at Yvaine. “Compared to Hawke, these two are small fry when it comes to straight answers.”

Yvaine tenses a little at the mention of Hawke, wondering if it will bring up her decision at Adamant, but it passes without incident. In fact, Alistair casts her a brief, sympathetic glance and then says to Morgana, “I’ve just thought... remember that time you set a chicken on fire?”

Leliana puts her face in her hands. “Oh Maker...”

Morgana winces. “I was nineteen and stupid. We were going to eat it anyway, and I just thought it would, er, shorten the cooking process.”

The night continues in the same vein, bright and oddly cheerful, considering the impending end of the world. It’s not _the_ victory, but Yvaine considers it _a_ victory. Maybe that’s enough.

* * *

 

It’s quite a while after the last course has been finished. Everyone’s drifted off to their haunts, and Yvaine leans against the railing outside the main hall, surveying Skyhold. The Frostbacks hold a certain kind of beauty, but so does this place: the protection of old stone, the half-heard conversations, the bustle of life.

Someone comes to stand next to her. She knows it’s Morgana even without looking, even without the sounds of mail and plate.

“So,” she says, “What are your plans from here?”

Morgana watches the comings and goings of the fortress, cocking her head and seeming to consider the question. “We need to rebuild. We’re Wardens, it’s what we always do. But I’d like some time with him first.” She sighs. “Afterwards? I... don’t know. Maybe we can choose what happens next. That feels strange to say.”

“Good strange, or bad strange?” Yvaine can’t help asking.

“Good strange. I think.”

Yvaine exhales, her eyes on Skyhold. It comforts her, knowing that no matter how important people say she is, there’s so much _more –_ so many people who barely think about her, who don’t _care._ Who are so much more important.

She needs to distract herself from those thoughts, so she somehow ends up asking, “You never answered the question.” When Morgana raises a brow, she continues, “How _did_ you and Alistair...?”

“He didn’t tell you? I hear he’s mentioned me while I’ve been away.”

“Oh, he’s been quite effusive.” She enjoys watching Morgana turn pink. “But no, he didn’t tell me the story. I caught pieces, but that was all.”

Morgana takes a deep breath. “We were... I was terrified of the Blight, of the responsibility... everything. Even of him, because I remembered the Circle and templars were... templars.  But he was kind to me. He treated me like I was worth knowing, and he was the second friend I made after Leliana. But even before that, I knew he was decent. I’d have trusted him with my life.” She clears her throat. “I’d never met a templar like him. And after far too long, I realized that was because he wasn’t one. We were friends for months before I knew I’d...” She swallows. “I’d fallen in love. And I was a little frightened of that, too. He made me happy, but I thought he’d never want a mage.”

“I sense a but,” Yvaine prompts, after silence falls again.

“He...” She still keeps her eyes on Skyhold, not on Yvaine. “He rescued a rose from Lothering. It was the only one that survived on Blighted land, and he told me that I was... well. ‘Something rare and wonderful in all this darkness,’ I think it was. He could probably give you the right words.”

Yvaine stares at her. “Maker, that’s... that’s like something from a ballad.”

Morgana smiles. “There was a lot more stuttering and blushing, but yes. I was quite surprised. I don’t know when it happened, but somewhere on the way, I realized I didn’t want to be without him. And it’s been like that ever since.”

“That’s... I thought there would be more blood. Perhaps darkspawn, dramatic confessions...?”

Now Morgana’s smile is a full-blown grin. “Well, it was after a bandit attack. We were both covered in gore. It had been difficult, and I think it had made him brave. He took me aside and told me, and that was it.”

“Finding the cure must have been...” Yvaine trails off.

“I wrote to him often. It kept me sane.”

“I see.”

Morgana frowns. “Are you certain there’s no-one in the Inquisition you...?”

Yvaine shakes her head. “Oh, no. Not that I’m aware of, anyway.”

Morgana nods, and then she’s standing, walking back to the hall with a shake of her head and a mutter that sounds like, “That you’re aware of.”


	12. Chapter 12

For the first time in so long, Morgana wakes up warm. It takes her a moment to register arms around her. She runs her hands over strong muscle and warm skin, unable to believe that she’s here. That he’s here. For one moment she wonders if this is just some dream, an ideal soon to be snatched away from her...

“I can hear you thinking,” Alistair mumbles, half-asleep. “Like little wheels turning.”

“I was just... checking.” She runs a hand over his arm again, ruffling the hairs there.

“Mmph. Tickles.” He noses into her neck. “That this is real?” When she nods, he says, “Did the same when I woke up.”

“I... Have I told you that I love you?”

He grins against her skin. “Yes, though it’s always nice to hear. I love you too. Now go back to sleep.”

“Alistair – “

“We have time. I promise, we have time.”

He’s right, she realizes, joy filling her chest. She lets herself drift off to sleep, smiling, finally home.  


End file.
